


Lemonade

by Tsume_Yuki



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Female Harry Potter, Master of Death, Master of Death Harry Potter, Muggle/Wizard Relations, Muggles Ruin the World, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-20
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-03 12:08:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6610168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tsume_Yuki/pseuds/Tsume_Yuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Albus sees Gellert since the start of the new century, he is introducing a muggleborn in 1931, while the dark wizard in question is merrily chasing a laughing redhead up the streets of Diagon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

 

1931

 

 

The first time Albus sees Gellert since the start of the new century, he is giving a tour to a new muggleborn in the year 1931.

It isn't so much that he had been looking for the man in the crowds, in fact, he'd never expected to see the man on British soil again.

He is well aware of the nameless, faceless Dark Lord that has pulled magical Germany under his control, subjected Hungary to the same thing.

But information leaving these countries is sparse at best; no one has an inkling as to who this Dark Lord is.

No one other than Albus Dumbledore that is. But he dares not look east, dares not consider what his ex-friend is up to now. He tries not to think of him, tries to ignore it all, and succeeds for the most part.

Until that summer of '31 when a head of iced blond hair goes striding right by him.

"Merlin damn it, Potter!"

Albus has just finished his description of the three different wand cores that Ollivander frequently uses when he hears that heavily accented shout.

He twists, heart lodged somewhere high in his throat, in time to see the blond head of hair pass him by without a single glance.

Gellert doesn't look any older than his late twenties, despite the fact he will turn fifty in the coming year. Albus himself does not appear any older than his early thirties, one of the advantages to being a powerful wizard.

The thought still doesn't distract him from the hurricane that is Gellert Grindelwald passing through Diagon Alley, clearly in pursuit of someone.

A high, bell like laugh echoes up the street, and Albus catches sight of a red-haired woman, physically looking to be no older than her early-twenties, but clearly that meant nothing in the Wizarding World.

Albus takes in the cursed scar that sits upon her brow, the teasing smirk to her lips, and the oddly shaped wand she carelessly dangles between her fingers.

Not her own, which sits securely in the leather holster attached to her otherwise bare arm.

Well it is summer, and short-sleeved dresses were becoming quite popular in the muggle world.

"Come here, Woman."

His heart constricts slightly as Gellert finally catches up to the woman, to this 'Potter', and wraps his arms around her waist, reeling her in before she can take off down the street again.

He has to look away, though he has already taken note of everything, there's nothing else to take it that won't hurt.

Why Gellert is visiting a Potter, an English Potter, he doesn't know. But perhaps it'd be prudent to find out.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Arms wrapped securely around the little fay, Gellert spins the two of them around, grinning widely as another joyous shriek escapes from between her lips, forearms trapped to her sides by his own.

"I'll take that," he insists, planting the woman back on the ground and plucking his wand free from where she'd been cradling it with her fingers.

Vibrant green eyes glance up at his face, and Potter offers up a grin of her own, as vivace and playful as his own surely is.

With the mane of curly red hair and the peach of her skin, she's summer in the flesh, eyes burning brightly even when compared to the lush green of the tree leaves.

"You're staring," Hariel 'Harry' Potter teases, wiggling her eyebrows and ignoring every scandalized look that they're drawing.

After all, running and laughing down Diagon Alley is apparently looked down upon.

"I am. How can I not, when such a captivating creature stands before me, bestowing her time upon such an unworthy wizard?" Harry laughs, loud and free, drawing even more eyes to the two of them, but Gellert cares not.

Let them stare, let them gaze and wonder and grow envious.

For Harry Potter is power in human form, a Master of Death, having gathered the Hallows once upon a time, having travelled through time and space to aid him in his conquest of the muggles.

Because were they not to subject them, then the muggles would kill the wizarding world instead. Just short of one hundred years into the future; Harry was the only one that'd travelled back, the only one capable.

Here she stands, looking so much more joyous and free than the shattered creatures that'd appeared at his feet a year ago. The Master of Death, from an Alternate Universe, cursed to live forever, to forever remain out of Death's hands.

Well, Gellert will just have to gather the Hallows here, to make sure she does not exist alone.

 

 

 

 

 

1930

 

 

Muggle Germany is in tatters, and as unfortunate as such a thing is, Magical Germany is not a separate state of being from its magic-less counterpart, no matter how much he wishes it so. While half of his time is split between the forceful invasion of Hungary that is swiftly concluding, the rest is eaten up by the demands of Magical Germany. Machiavelli -bless that wizard and all of his works- had been right about many things. Making the people see him as the greatest option, making them content and unwilling to attempt rebelling, is just one.

Sighing, Gellert Grindelwald runs a hand through his hoarfrost blond hair, the other twirling a quill between nimble digits.

So much work to do, and oh so little time.

There's the summary reports he rather wants to read, compiled by Herr Hagen Sieghard, one of his most trusted lieutenants. The man had been put in charge of the quiet search for the coveted Hallows, and as such, Gellert is itching to read that particular report to see if any credible leads have since appeared.

But, as unfortunate as it is, running a country -even if such a thing did happen from the shadows- takes precedence.

How irritating.

Tapping the tip of the quill repeatedly against the wood of the desk, Gellert reclines ever so slightly in his chair, forefingers rubbing at his lip in the process.

He needs to find someone to watch over the work in Germany, he needs to delegate the actual paperwork, all that bureaucratic nonsense, to someone else.

A competent wizard, one who understands how to think for himself, but wouldn't get any ideas of a revolution against Gellert himself. Someone who knew that his place in the food chain is lower than the rising Dark Lord's, but who has a knack for ruling himself. One who can solve the problems without any of Gellert's guidance, but will be wise enough to come to him for help with things that could be a bit more than simply problematic.

He will have to scour through his ranks, see what they has to offer. And if not, scout out the Lords and see if any fit the right criteria. Empathising on a good dose of self preservation, so they wouldn't be stupid enough to challenge him.

Plan of action sorted, Gellert drops his quill in disgust, sneering at the paperwork as he does so. Now that he knows he's going to dump this mass amount of paperwork on someone else's head, he refuses to be near it for a second longer.

It's been a decade and a half since he stole the Elder Wand, but all he has really used it for is the conquest of Germany. He hasn't even gotten to go out on the front lines in Hungary, and though it was his own decision, such a thing grates.

The Wand is suppose to be used, to forcibly bow opponents, and if they wouldn't bow, then he would obliterate them. He misses the action, the rush of magic flowing through his veins and the heightened senses that comes with being in a dangerous duel.

His fingers itch, itch to hold that long sought after wand and to just, do something.

But Hungary is all but won now, the last of the loyalists squashed beneath the weight of his army, and Gellert is oh so bored.

Perhaps he can find a map, gaze upon it and decide which country he will take next. Perhaps a pincer movement into Austria first, coming at the country from both sides; it seems to be the most logical move to make.

But that is once again theoretical work.

His patience has been worn thin by the mass amount of paperwork, and picking his next target requires a bit more effort than a map and a dart. He has to look into their economy, the people's opinions, the law enforcement/military strength and of course, the state of muggle affairs too. Those are just the basics, there's a lot more to research than that, but those remain the key points.

Scowling, Gellert pushes back and away from his desk, surging to his feet and striding over to the door. He throws it open, ignoring the way one of the portraits of his ancestors scowls, barking out orders for him to straighten his back, that he looks like a common mudblood slouching in such a way.

Gellert sneers at him instead.

Oh, how big a mistake it had been for his father to stick those portraits onto the wall, they were never coming down, and no matter how much they irritate him, Gellert won't destroy history by blowing up those portraits.

No matter how much he dearly wishes to.

The multitude of portraits hanging in the hallways pass him by, and Gellert pays attention to none of them. They can whine and they can nag, but that is the extent of their power.

He doesn't have to listen to them, certainly not. If he wants the Grindelwald Family to go down in a blaze of glory, then that's what it'll do. Not that he has any plans to die.

It's just that as a Dark Lord, death is a significantly higher possibility than if he'd gone to work some menial position within the Ministry.

No, whatever way this goes, the Grindelwald name will go down in history, and that should be enough to sate his glory obsessed ancestors.

Gellert has no reason to chase after their desires to see the Grindelwald family flourish and thrive. He's going to gather all the Hallows, become the Master of Death, he's going to do what none others before him have ever done.

Fingering the wand in question, Gellert walks out into the courtyard of his ancestral home, basking in the burning summer sun.

While a part of him longs for the bitter northern bite of Durmstrang weather, he can still appreciate the pleasant heat that the south offers.

Adjusting the white threads that lace up the collar of his shirt, Gellert flaps the lapels about, cool air curling into his chest before he gives in and casts a simple cooling charm. Not enough to warrant a jumper, but enough that he won't cook under the heat.

 

 

 

It's as he walks past the fountain, three hundred years old and spell-work still working perfectly fine, that it happens.

The Elder Wand is still held almost reverently between his fingers, the aged wood almost rough against his palm, but he's not paying as much attention to it as he probably should.

So, when he goes to stand before the water feature, watching the iridescent dragonflies dart across its surface, it takes him a second too long to realize what's happening. That the wand is vibrating, thrumming violently in his grip.

Gellert startles, eyes shooting to the implement in question, holding the mythical artefact before him.

In that same moment, there's a glaring flash of light, and suddenly there's two Elder Wands, there's a woman, and then they're falling.

The fountain catches them in its watery comforts with an almighty splash.

 

 

 

And that is how Gellert Grindelwald met Hariel Potter.

 

 

 

 


	2. Wand I

 

 

 

 

 

Spluttering, Gellert surfaces from the pond, one hand pressing against the shallow base and hair absolutely dripping. No doubt he looks pitiful, like a muggle caught out unprepared in a downpour, a drowned rat.

What in the name of Merlin had just happened?

His other hand is clenching at the Elder Wand, and it takes him a startling moment to realise it's not just one wand in his grasp, but two. That there's a hand wrapped as tight around the wands as his own, skin against skin.

The blond snarls, pulling violently until the offending limb is no longer attached to his own wand, but takes the second one as a consolation prize.

There's a lazy splash, and as Gellert sits there in the cool water with the sun burning down on the crown of his head, he realises the assailant is not getting up.

Which is unacceptable.

He needs to know about the clear hole in his wards, so that he can fix it and stop any other idiots with foolishly ambitious dreams from crawling in.

Scowling, Gellert shifts the Elder Wand to one hand, the other dipping into the water to grip at the forearm that disappeared beneath its surface a mere moment ago.

It takes a second, and the dark wizard frowns over just how thin that limb is, but he manages to haul the woman up, until her head is above the surface.

She's unconscious. Typical.

He's about to forcibly awaken her, pull her into the land of the living and wring all the information he needs from her soaked form, until he actually gets a good look at her. He pauses.

She looks gaunt.

Like the starving Muggles who can't quite afford bread, willing to do battle over the smallest scraps. Skin pale, unhealthily so, it takes little effort to hold her up.

Frowning, Gellert tips the woman's head back, flicking the wet tendrils back from her face.

He doesn't recognise her. Not the cursed scar on her brow that reeks of dark magic, even though it's quite evident by the puckering skin that it's decades old. Hair a dark shade of plum, it's quite possibly a lot brighter when dry, he would certainly remember crossing a woman as memorable as this one. He doesn't know how she got in through the wards, but clearly she is currently in no state to answers his questions right now.

Nevertheless, that is something easily fixed, with some effort, money and time.

 

 

   
The Blue Wing of Grindelwald manor is for unannounced company, and has all the enchantments one could possibly need regarding unexpected and possibly unwelcomed guests. There's monitoring charms, for both guest welfare and behaviour, Gellert will know instantly if this woman wishes to cause him harm, if she wishes to destroy the household. He'll know the exact second she wakes up, what she does, what her mood is.

The only thing that escapes him, is her magic.

Oh, he knows it's there, but it's in the same way one senses empty space. The knowledge that something should be there is in his head, but there's no physical evidence.

Gellert has never met a person who could hide their magic from him. Perhaps it's because she's unconscious, perhaps it's because she looks one more missed meal away from starving to death, perhaps it's because she's in a coma. Or maybe it's all of these reasons. Maybe it's nothing to do with them at all.

All that matters, is that Gellert cannot get a read of this witch, and she presents herself as the most delicious puzzle. It's not quite the battlefield he'd been wanting, but certainly he has something to entertain him for the next few days.

Lips pursed, Gellert lifts the wand the woman had come with between his long fingers, turning it over in his palm. It fits the exact same way, it weighs the same, feels the exact same.

But there's something that's almost a crack down the surface, not quite broken but a little crevice.

It doesn't resonate with his magic either. It carries the same tune, but it's played in a different pitch, a softer one. It doesn't seem like a solo piece, like the Elder Wand does.

No, this cheap intimidation feels like part of a harmony, just missing it's accompanying pieces.

Twisting the exact physical copy of the Elder Wand between his fingers, Gellert twirls it around, already knowing that it will resist something fierce if he tries casting anything. That it won't allow him to cast a single thing upon the woman it appeared with.

Looking over the sleeping red-head once again, Gellert frowns upon noticing the ring sitting upon her right annualry. It's an ugly thing, with a dark purple stone cut in the most unrefined manner he has ever seen. It's particularly displeasing on the eye, but that's not what's drawing Gellert's attention.

In a low baritone, the hideous dark stone echoes the fake wand's own haunting alto. The symbol on the ring has Gellert captivated. It's a marking he's become intimately familiar with throughout his life, one that stalks his every step.

The symbol of the Deathly Hallows is engraved into the stone.

He's reasonably sure his heart has stopped for a moment, so fixated upon that symbol he is. He, he had not been expecting to come across a potential lead, not here, not one falling right into his lap.

Looking back at the fake wand with new eyes, Gellert wonders if this woman has been collecting the Hallows as well. He's sure the wand he holds is the true Elder Wand yet, if this woman's imitation wand resonates so well with the stone on her finger, is the stone also a falsified copy? Does it have even the slightest power of the actual Resurrection Stone?

As many have tried creating their own Philosopher's Stone, so too have they endeavoured to make a reproduction of the Deathly Hallows. Is he looking at a somewhat successfully attempt?

His fingers reach out to trace the surface of the stone, an action quickly aborted at first contact. The jewellery damn well hisses, spitting hot sparks at his fingertips. Not enough to scar, but sting most certainly.

Defensive.

Charmed, or part of the enchantment upon the object?

Gellert tilts his head to a side, levelling the Elder Wand towards the stone.

But nothing comes back. It is as unreadable as the woman herself is. Infuriating.

Even so he shall get his answers, no matter how he has to go about acquiring the information. A twirl of his wand, and yes, it seems he is quite able to extract a trace amount of blood from the woman. Enough for an identification ritual.

 

 

 

 

Six hours later, the results come in. She is Hariel Lillian Potter.

No relatives.

Not even dead ones.

What is suppose to be a sprawling family tree, a ritual that even takes note of up to three generations of Muggles, comes back bare.

Hariel Lillian Potter, a near dead woman, holding two fake Hallows, and with no earthly connections whatsoever.

 

 

 

 

It takes three days for the woman to awaken. Gellert has spent that time experimenting, both with the fake Elder Wand and the ring he cannot get off her finger. He's spent this time throwing diagnostic spell after diagnostic spell at the woman, and all of them come back infuriatingly, confusingly, empty. Like water against hot metal, the diagnostic spells splashed upon the woman's form, dispersing seconds after and leaving her completely unaffected. It's enough to drive a man mad.

Absolutely nothing.

Not a thing, even a quick look into the other magical countries yielded no results; none of them have declared a woman with red hair missing, none of them have a female with a cursed lightning bolt scar on record. It's as if she first came into existence when she was pulling him into the fountain.

Of course, he only gets a day to actually look into the woman personally, not soon after her appearance, the beast that is paperwork demands his attention, and Gellert is forced to go beat it back, least it take his offices as a territory of its own.

That is why, when the wards ring and inform him is guest is close to waking, Gellert is half buried beneath a stack of parchment, hand cramping and quill slowly starting to smoke as his temper rises.

He needs to find a competent paper-pusher, someone intelligent enough to compact the important bits into memos for him, and deal with the useless stuff with no input from himself. Surely it can't be that hard to find someone? A secretary of sorts.

But no, none of his trusted lieutenants have come through for him. Perhaps he should just divide his paperwork into equal segments and push it off on them? After all, a good quality of a leader is knowing when to delegate.

As it is, the declaration of his guest's imminent awakening couldn't have come soon enough.

Gellert drops the smoking quill, kicking back and away from the desk in order to rise to his feet. He doesn't glance once at his paperwork, instead passing right through the door and taking off down the corridor. His mind whirls, rapidly adding up the facts as he advances towards the room.

Firstly, the woman had appeared out of nowhere. Not shattering his wards by bursting through in a powerful display of magic, there is no damage evident in the ward scheme. It is as if her arrival in his courtyard had been completely unaffected by the vast amount of protections upon his home.

That is still mildly irritating.

Second, she has two fake Hallow upon her person, exceptionally good copies, but still, copies.

Gellert knows for a fact that he has the actual Elder Wand. He'd tracked the Deathstick's bloody path from wizard to wizard, until it had come to him.

This is the real Elder Wand.

Whatever that woman holds, he's not sure.

Just that it's not the Elder Wand.

 

 

 

 

He stops just before the door to the woman's room, and with a casual flick of his wand, the wall turns transparent on one side. Another one of the perks of the Blue Wing; were it not made for holding possibly nasty guests, Gellert would have said the place had been built with spying upon a person specifically in mind.

He settles back on his heels, arms folded across his chest and watches as the woman shifts, not quite asleep but not awake either, not yet.

Her eyelids twitch, lashes fluttering across the tops of her gaunt cheeks. Even with the nutrient potions his most trusted medic has poured down her throat, she still looks unfed. Unwell. Though her skin is no longer grey, the waxen tegument does not stretch quite as hard across her bones as it once did.

She shuffles upon the bed again, weak arms reaching to push the covers down and this time Gellert sees that she is actually awake.

One hand, fingers curled inwards, comes up to rub at the tender skin beneath her eyes, red brows puckered above the bridge of her nose. They're a startling shade of green he notes, evergreen leaves and the killing curse all at the same time. She brushes back a stray curl, exposing a lightning bolt scar that rests upon her brow. Sowilo sits upon her forehead, the skin around it taunt with age.

How curious.

The woman's lips part, and Gellert can almost hear the pained, confused groan that leaves between them. Her eyes open again, and her fingers reach, not for her wand, but for the ring that rests upon her finger. She brushes her digits over the grotesque rock, expression dazed before she finally seems to register that her wand -the cheap replica of the Elder Wand- is not within her possession.

Yet, she does not panic, instead pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes, as if overcome by stress. Well, if he lost the Elder Wand, he would be quite stressed, but in a much more vicious, bloodthirsty way.

Still, she has no secondary wand, not that he hadn't had her person searched for such a thing, she'd have reached for it by now.

Satisfied, Gellert approaches the door, giving a soft knock. The woman doesn't snap to attention at the noise, but she does turn her head towards the direction of the threshold, curious.

Taking one more deep breath, Gellert opens the door.

 

 

 

 

Before, the weight of her magic had escaped him. Hidden away, secret and intangible, he'd been unable to get an accurate read on it.

That is no longer the case.

Like a low hanging storm, it has spread to each corner of the room, a threatening promise of a downpour should even the slightest input disturb its delicate balance. It's a heavy thing, weighty, though to his eyes it appears nothing more than a fine mist of simmering green magic, interlaced with silvers and golds. A rather delicate beauty, in fact, compared to some of the heavy handed magics he'd seen during adventures through Europe.

Oddly enough, it felt as if it held no ties to much of anything, only bare threads that no doubt connected to a handful of sentimental objects; magic was after all, a part of a wizard, and that meant thoughts and feelings were often reflected in its physical mass.

He had met far and few people as, flighty, as this woman appears to be.

A touch of Legilimency picks up nothing at all, the woman's mind is a blank space, not protected by Occlumency, but something that seems infinitely older, greater in its intangibility, as untouchable as the air. No, as impalpable as the gods themselves.

It appears as if he will have to do this the old fashioned way, not that he has problems with such a thing. There is never a moment when he does not use his charm, be there an excuse for it or not.

Because, why shouldn't he? You catch more pixies with honey than vinegar. Another good wizarding phrase perverted by muggles; one muggleborn had adjusted the saying to flies instead of pixies, and suddenly it had spread through the muggle world like wildfire. It is like nothing is sacred, every time Gellert believed the muggles could not get any worse, every time he believed they had finally hit rock bottom, the masses pull out their shovels and began to dig.

"Good morning, Little Dove. You've been asleep for a few days."

He speaks in German first, but when it becomes evident that she does not understand, he repeats it in English. Gellert crosses his arms, smiling at the redhead but remaining a respectful distance away from her bed.

Green eyes shoot up to stare at him, and Gellert instantly knows he's not dealing with the young twenty-something that her deceiving physical appearance suggests she is.

For all that she doesn't look a day past twenty one, those eyes are old. He knows those eyes, it’s the same eyes of the enemy he captures, of tough Aurors who've seen the worst the world has to offer, and still ended up walking away even if the trauma sees them unable to tell the tale.

Well, he hasn’t seen this woman out there fighting, he'd remember colouring like that.

Humming at the back of his throat, Gellert manually pulls a chair from the desk, dropping into its surface. Even twitching his wand wrong could set this woman off, and though she doesn't have access to her own, that doesn't mean she's completely incapable. Magic is a part of her just as much as it is of him, and as Gellert knows his own magic will react to intense bursts of emotions, if this woman gets scared enough, her own might try to attack.

And Gellert has no intention of pushing her towards that. Not yet.

"So you still have the Elder Wand then," the woman says instead, not even looking at the Hallow in question, but instead running her fingers over the ring on her finger, twisting the golden band back and forth around the digit.

Gellert follows the movement, eyes sharp, even as warnings flare to life within his mind.

What does she mean, that he still has the Elder Wand? A seer? No, that can't be right, otherwise she'd have no doubt taken better precautions given that she landed right before a rising Dark Lord. Gellert is under no illusions, while he may be the hero of his own story, that doesn't mean that the rest of the world considers him the embodiment of truth, justice and all that is good.

"I still have the Elder Wand?" Gellert repeats blandly, even as his magic swells and begins to cloud him. Born with the ability to see the sacred energy all wizards are gifted with, only he can see the way the two opposing forces spark against one another in the air, one aggressive, the other defensive.

The redhead cocks her head to a side, before a hollow smile graces her features.

At the same time the fake Deathstick, the perfect intimidation with its internal magic feeling just a little off, appears in her hand.

The air stills between them, as the woman stares down at the wand in her grasp without the slightest hint of surprise, Gellert's knuckles whitening as his tightens his hold upon the actual Elder Wand.

He has no idea who this woman is, how she managed to get through his wards, nor how she appears capable of summoning her wand with greater skill than any he's ever seen. He's not quite sure what he's expecting, but for the woman to place her wand upon the bedside table is not it.

In response, Gellert relaxes just the slightest bit, shoulders still tense even as the woman goes back to worrying the ring upon her finger back and forth.

Just as he is about to open his mouth and enquire, demand answers from her, she beats him to the draw.

"Yeah. I wasn't too sure where I was going to land but I was using the Elder Wand as a focal point. I've crossed dimensions, though I completely destroyed my world to do so. Not that there was anything really left on it. The muggles made sure of that," she laments mournfully, eyes sad and brows crumpling from the fine arch they had previously held.

Gellert stares at the woman, rather unsure what to make of her words. The idea of crossing from an alternate dimension has been discussed several times in theory, but there has never been a successful example of such a thing, it has always remained theoretical, an idea out of reach of wizarding kind. Even for magic, there are some ideas, some concepts that are far too fanatical for ever their greatest minds to achieve.

And yet, and yet everyone said that a Philosopher's Stone was impossible. Right up until Flamel did it. So, who was to say what was truly impossible?

Certainly, Gellert can wait a few moments to judge the situation.

The not quite Elder Wand she holds is perhaps the thing that would give the most corroboration towards her tale. It is a perfect replica of his own, a twin in every way. If it wasn't for the slight difference in magical signatures. Given that this woman is claiming to be from a mirror world of his own, then some credence should maybe be lent to her claims.

"An alternate world you say?" He asks, cocking his head to a smile and once again smiling charmingly in her direction.

His magic has settled now, sensing the verity in the opposing force. She certainly believes her words to be true, that much is clear. He, who's mouth is always full of white lies, knows the taste of truth, and certainly the woman's magic hold the sweet, warm flavour.

"Yeah," she tucks a curl of red hair behind her ear, though two more fall forwards to take its place in a cheap imitation of the mythical hydra, "I had to aim for an object of power, so I linked our wands together, so to speak. I guess you could even say they're half brothers, given that they were both made by Death."

Her weary smile is a brittle thing, and Gellert fires one of his own back, full of teeth and threats.

"Well, I do believe you've given me a fair bit to investigate, Miss…" He trails off, one eyebrow rising in question. He might know her name, but it is still best to see if she will introduce herself, and more importantly, who she will introduce herself as.

The woman who claims to be from an alternate dimension, who seems to hold two Hallows upon her person -at least he has an idea of what the stone potentially looks like now- blinks, slow to comprehend.

"Hariel Potter. Just call me Harry, please." A nickname, a desperate search for a sense of normality within a foreign land. Well, Gellert can agree to that. For now.

"Miss Harry Potter," he parrots, wrapping his tongue around the English name, watching her shoulders sink at the address. Her real name, not a pseudonym.

"I do believe you should get some rest. As it stands, I cannot offer you all of my time, forceful occupation of foreign territory takes a good amount of effort, as unfortunate as that fact is."

She doesn't quake or quiver at his words, but he didn't expect her to. Not really. He's already seen the thousand yard stare in her eyes, he knows she's not going to fear him with a few carefully chosen words.

She claims to hold the Elder Wand from another dimension, and he know that artefacts history quite well. It is the easiest Hallow to track, for it leaves a bloodbath in its wake. The Deathstick has marked the history pages with the bloodied handprints of those constantly grasping for its power.

Gellert is aware that, right now, he is just another in a long line of power-hungry wizards. The difference is, he plans to be the last of that line. He will become the Master of Death. Though what that entails varies from person to person, the German is quite sure that there can only be one Master of Death. Unless…

Unless another one visits from an alternate dimension.

Eyeing Miss Hariel -call me Harry- Potter, Gellert offers her one last smile, noting the way her eyelids are drooping. If she has been travelling dimensions, then it had to take an astronomical amount of magical power. He will have to see to it that a record of her actions is being documented; he'd get one of his men on it.

"Well, I shall you leave you to your sleep, Little Dove. If you awaken before my return, simply call for Maus, and he shall bring you refreshments, yes?"

Harry lifts her arm to her face, attempting to hide behind the thin limb, but he can see the curious quirk of her brow, the little bemused smile to her lips. She no doubt knows him as a Dark Lord, he's all but spelt it out for her. His kindness confuses her, it's evident in the way she shies away, unsure of her footing.

"Okay. Thank you, Herr Grindelwald."

"Gellert, if you please. You did insist upon being addressed as Harry, and you were certainly bold enough to throw me into a fountain. I do believe we are on first name basis, no?"

He twists on heel, exiting the room before she can formulate a response.

 

 

 

 

As he leaves, Gellert raises the wards on the Blue Wing until they are at their maximum potential, and will stop at nothing short of non-lethal power to keep Miss Harry Potter in his custody.

Fingers itching to begin tearing through the pages of whatever dusty text he can get his hands on, Gellert calls for his second in command. He could deal with the paperwork from now on, and he could figure out the right person to delegate work to.

Right now, his mind is a hurricane of ideas, thoughts whipping around though no specific one takes centre stage.

The first order of business is to confirm this woman's story. And for that, he needs to obtain a pensive. He'd been umming and ahhing about acquiring one for a while, but now it seems that choice has been taken from him.

Still, better to have access to something and never need it, than to have need and no access.

Right, well, it appears he has work to do.

 

At least he's not bored anymore.

 

 

 

 


	3. Wand II

 

 

 

 

When he returns for Harry late in the evening, it is to the sight of her sat upon the bed, leaning against the headboard with a simple sandwich held between her hands.

It's a deceptively simple scene. The sunset is bleeding in through the western window, the colours reflecting in her bold curls as she rests within the room of pale blue walls. The light catches at the pale skin of Harry's hand, upon it an impossibly white scar.

_I must not tell lies_.

Gellert knows enough about cursed items to recognise the aftermath of a blood quill, especially one used as what was evidentially a torture technique. Disgusting barbaric.

It certainly seems that Miss Hariel Potter has lived an eventful life.

She looks up, something that is not quite caution in her eyes, but she's certainly aware of his presence. More importantly, she knows of him, or at least, what he has done. Odd. Either she was rather well involved in his movement -be it on his side or upon the opposition- back in her own world, or…

"So you still have the Elder Wand then."

Or it's not just dimension travel that has been happening here. A potential time traveller too. How exciting.

Well, if he was going to meet someone who broke the laws of magic, at least she doesn't appear to have stopped at just the one. Though, he will not ask of the future of her realm, it is not his own.

This is a world that follows a different time stream, a different path, and has been unmade already by the woman's sheer presence.

He will not lose the Elder Wand, he will not stray from his path, and he will erase the vast majority of muggles from the world. Oh, those with latent magical blood, those capable of producing Muggleborns will be preserved, but they will not live a kind life. The wizarding population needs to be increased, it's as simple as that.

But, he shall worry about those ideas when he has more countries residing beneath his thumb; it is not exactly something he can address right now. No need to get ahead of himself.

"Good evening, Little Dove. How did you sleep?"

Harry cocks her head to a side as she looks up at him, crust of the sandwich half hanging out from between her lips. It's endearing, certainly unlike all the tensely formal pureblood women he often finds himself wooing at the Dark Family gatherings. A refreshing change.

"I slept well, thank you," she says, running one hand through her curls as the other vanishes the crumbs from her bedsheets.

Gellert stands there for a moment, one neatly trimmed nail tapping silently against the dry, firm wood of the Deathstick in his hand, his full attention upon its supposed twin that resides mere feet away. Whereas he uses the Elder Wand to do battle, to conquer countries, this woman is vanishing morsels of bread.

No, there has to be more to her than this. If she truly has ventured across dimensions, then there has to be more to her.

"I guess you have questions for me?"

"That I do. I must ask though, you look remarkably young to be yielding the Deathstick."

He glances pointedly to the weapon cradled within her grasp, before glancing up at her admittedly young face. Gellert knows that his own visage does not appear to have aged much, that he would struggle to pass for a youthful thirty in the muggle-world. His mass amount of magic is slowing the aging process significantly. He dearly hopes that it is such a case here; for the Elder Wand to have been won by a woman so young is almost, insulting.

"I'm forty years old, actually," Harry says as a light dusting of pink graces her cheeks.

Satisfaction swells within Gellert's innards for but a moment. Then, she rips it right out of him.

"I actually won the Wand when I was seventeen, didn't seem to age past twenty-one though," she murmurs quietly, rubbing at the back of her neck. She looks bashful, but also deeply depressed.

And for all that it takes him a moment to orienteer his thoughts, Gellert instantly realizes the problem. Harry claims to have stopped aging, though no such thing has happened to Gellert since acquiring the Wand. Too big of a difference, given that both implements were made by Death, which means it's a result of something else.

The idea hits him and he speaks before he can still his tongue.

"You've got them all."

It doesn't need to be specified what he's referring to.

Harry knows it too, because her face saddens, and her fingers reach for the simple cloth bracelet that rests on her wrist.

Prior to this sudden burst of knowledge, Gellert had ignored the cheap cotton band. Now though, he can see it for what it actually is. Or rather, what it is not. For Harry's magic seems to disappear into a vacuum, a blank space of nothingness collecting around the adornment.

"You've transfigured the cloak."

After all, it was the most inconspicuous one to carry around. For all the Elder Wand is famed, the easiest to track, if one does not know the exact appearance it is difficult to pick out of a crowd. If that truly is the ring sitting upon her finger, than that too can pass as a simple family heirloom.

The cloak, however. Well, invisibility cloaks are always pricey to acquire, and to wear one so openly would raise questions. Transfiguring it into a simple bracelet is genius.

"Yeah, I always keep it on me... It was my dad's."

Her father's.

If she's being truthful, that means Ignotus' cloak passed from Harry'd father to her. As the Potters are descendants of Ignotus Peverell -oh yes, he's done his homework- then it's highly likely that the family in the current time hold the cloak too. He'd ruled it out earlier, dismissing the idea because surely if they'd kept hold of the cloak someone would know.

But, it seems the Potters are one of the few families capable of keeping secrets in the magical world.

There's the fading sunlight glimmering in Harry's eyes as she looks down at the bracelet, and that makes Gellert wary. Eyes capable of reflecting the outside world are incapable of showcasing just how cracked they were beneath the surface. If Harry's story is true, which is looking more and more likely, then one has to question just what would motivate a person to leave their entire world behind.

"Why come here, Little Dove. Is a world without me truly so dreadful?"

For that is the only way she could have acquired the wand; if she or another had plucked it from his cold dead body.

"It was a world without anyone," Harry whispers, her fists tightening in the bedsheets, white cotton collecting in crumpled clusters between her fingers, "the muggles killed them all."

"Excuse me?"

What she's saying, it cannot possibly be right. There is no way muggles could have overpowered them. They were magic-less creatures, residing at the very bottom of the food chain, lower than even House Elves and Pixies. Completely useless.

"They make these weapons, nuclear bombs. They poison everything, if it doesn't infect the wizard it certainly got the crops and cattle. Everyone died out over time. Everyone but me." Here, she laughs, shaking her head and looking truly disgusted.

"I ate the poisoned food, but it never killed me. Only made my sick. But then things stopped growing, and it was getting harder and harder, and everyone else was dead. Timetravel, well I'm sure you know how those rules work. So, I worked around it. That's why I came here."

Of course. The Elder Wand is most certainly a wonder, capable of being both a battering ram and a surgical instrument, it could take magic suite for only one style and twist it, until it was useful for both brute force and delicate precision. Supplemented by the other two Hallows, no doubt it would have enough might to power through and break barriers between dimensions.

Fascinating.

"I'm going to kill the muggles that make the nuclear bombs," Harry says, conviction thick in her voice, will burning in her eyes. It's delicious, a sight that reminds him of warm summer days beneath the English sun discussing the conquest of the world. Endearing.

"And the rest of them?" Prompts Gellert, watching as Harry's eyes refocus, no longer staring straight ahead but instead staring up at him.

Gellert can't get a read on her at all, not without Legilimency, and he has no desire to see if she will notice such a thing. Besides, it isn't polite either.

"I don't want them to ever hurt anyone again. Whatever need I felt to defend them died with my friends."

Well then. Gellert feels a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he just can't prevent it from spreading across his lips. He can hear what goes unsaid. That the long stretch of immortality seems like a solitary road to travel alone. Yet, she doesn’t desire his company, specifically. Just anyone, someone who won't leave her alone.

And well, if she's not going anywhere…

"It would seem, Miss Potter, that our goals align for now."

She might as well be an ally in his crusade.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Beorhtric Lawley remembers his first meeting with Gellert Grindelwald quite clearly.

As a returning student of good academic record, he had been selected to aid the latest batch of new students, as one of the few Second Years capable of keeping up with the ruggrats and his own studies. Beorhtric hadn't been the one given the dubious honours of showing Gellert around, but he had been forced to aid the munchkin he was in charge of in the aftermath of a meeting with Gellert.

He remembers Gellert's behaviour at school, the pranks that pushed the boundaries of his magical knowledge, that infuriated the militaristic school staff. Pranks that steadily became more and more vicious, until they could no longer be labelled as such.

Because Gellert struggles to see the line sometimes, not until he is well past it, and he has always been like that. It makes for risky living. Rewarding most certainly.

But oh so risky.

Gellert is a very precarious balance of a man that will lead you to riches or ruin. And it all depends on the people who surround him.

Because really, on his own Gellert will either rule the world or set it on fire. And while Beorhtric has yet to be personally burned, he has mopped up the ashes on more than one occasion.

As such, it's understandable how he is not in the least bit certain about what happened to the Fountain Female, as the rest of those in the know have taken to calling her. It is entirely possible that a Magical hospital somewhere in Europe has taken in a react head case found on the streets, brain dribbling out of her ears.

On the other hand, it's a possibility that Gellert has spent that past few days nursing her back to health.

 

 

 

As such, Beorhtric masterfully managed to keep a straight face at breakfast, when the doors open and a bright eyed Gellert leads the woman in.

Already she looks significantly better; while her cheeks are still gauntly hallow, there's a healthy flush to her skin that indicates she downed half a potions cabinet, and she walks with a steady ease. Her dress is a simple thing, old in style and probably retrieved from whatever desolate wardrobe that last young female of this mansion had stocked up. It has to be at least fifty years old, though given the lack of sleeves and the shrunken hem of the dress that exposes half her calves, it's evident that the woman has already made some adjustments.

Drawing his eyes away from the slender legs, Beorhtric rises smoothly, the typical motion of greeting that Durmstrang has all but beaten into all its students flowing from his limbs with a practiced grace.

The woman doesn't stare as those who have not met a previous Durmstrang graduate do, merely offering her own bow in return, though her legs quiver ever so slightly as she does so.

"Harry, meet Beorhtric Lawley, my second in command. Beorhtric, the lovely Miss Hariel Potter. She will be remaining with us for some time."

There's something alight in Gellert's eyes. It's not attraction, Beorhtric has never seen that particular emotion flash through Gellert's eyes before, not for something other than power. But interest, yes, that certainly burns in those icy blues.

Regardless, the blond steps forwards and pulls Miss Potter's chair out for her with a flourish and she gratefully sinks into its leather cushion, the slight relief on her face betraying her exhaustion.

She does not look well.

Beorhtric knew what starvation looked like, in his mind he has a list of all the textbook signs. But being able to mentally reel something off, and looking at it, having it stare straight into his face is another thing entirely.

Something has gone horribly wrong in Miss Potter's life for her to look like that.

He has no doubts that Gellert has managed to get the full story out of her already, his Lord is just that charming. Even at Durmstrang as a young child he had held a special kind of magnetism. It was why everyone had gravitated to him, why they still did.

Even when he had held you beneath his wand, carved runes into your skin in an attempt to empower magic, to grant them the same sight he was born with, to truly push the boundaries of wizardkind; no matter how much pain they were in, they kept coming back.

The staff has spoken of intoxicating magic, of coercion when they discovered what Gellert had gotten up to at Durmstrang, what his friends had knowingly agreed to participate in. They said his magic had influenced their mind, as if they were drunk beneath its weight at their judgement had been impaired.

And perhaps that was what had happened.

It didn't matter though. Because here they all still are, they still follow Gellert. When he had called them, they had come. His exclusion from school, it had done nothing to destroy their loyalty, it had not weakened over time and distance, as they had hoped.

Instead, the man's return, his call to arms, had summoned them all more surely that anything would have ever managed.

Now it seems that another is about to be pulled into Gellert's orbit, and Beorhtric wonders what this woman brings to the table that Gellert cannot find in any other.

The most obvious conclusion is that her ability to slip by the wards has landed her here, but his subconscious dismisses that idea. It's not quite right, so the Durmstrang graduate leans back and settles in to observe the woman.

She is quite the sight despite her current state of health, all big red hair and bright green eyes. With some meat on her bones she'll pass as a pretty young woman, maybe even beautiful despite the scar upon her brow. It reminds him almost of the runes Gellert used to have them carve into their bodies, of the scars that he knows decorates the Dark Lord's forearms. For as soon as the experimental trials were run, Gellert had more than happily put himself through the same thing, just far more refined a method.

"Will the lovely Miss Potter be attending the summer ball?" Beorhtric enquires, mentally running the calculations through his head. It was nine days until the event was to take place in his ancestral home, a victorious celebration of all that Gellert has achieved so far in his quest to put the muggles back in their rightful place.

Collecting Europe's Wizarding governments until they were all under thumb, until they were unable to stop him was an excellent plan, and with the conquest of two countries already, things were well underway. A celebration would boost morale among the upper echelons, and that would increase productivity.

It'd be even better with Gellert participating; the question is would he be bringing a date this time?

Beorhtric knew of many a pureblood woman who had attempted to snare the man in the past, but had rightfully failed.

Gellert's attention would not be caught by anything less than a woman capable of matching him magically. The way his old friend is focusing upon Miss Potter is the closest Beorhtric has ever come to seeing him show interest. Though he still is notoriously tight-lipped about how he spent his time in England all those years ago.

Mayhap he just has a thing for the English, the Potters were English Purebloods, weren't they?

"What's say you, Harry? Will you do me the honour of attending the ball upon my arm, to ward off all the women who'd attempt to wrestle a ring upon my finger?"

Potter snorts, rolling those green eyes at Gellert's words even as her mouth tugs up at the corners. She seems perfectly at ease, the pureblood mask that so many women wear outside of their bedrooms absent.

Not Pureblood then.

A half-blood? A bastard child?

Beorhtric knows that Gellert cares little for the ancestry of blood, only the weight of the magic that flows within those veins. If their magic is powerful, Gellert wouldn't care in the least about the parentage of said person.

Still, the thought makes Beorhtric uneasy, has him shifting ever so slightly in his seat as Potter focuses solely upon Gellert, one hand still delicately holding up the toast she was biting into.

"I highly doubt you need me to keep the women off you, even with your pretty face."

Gellert barks a laugh at the brash compliment, spoken with nothing but blunt honesty, as if his attractiveness if just another feature to be accepted and moved on from.

Potter clearly doesn't give two whits about what the blond haired wizard could do to her, fearlessly staring him down, and another piece of the puzzle slots into place for Beorhtric.

She's challenging him.

It's such a strange concept, such a difference to the route all the other women have tried to gain Gellert's attention with, and its evidentially working. The girl isn't even trying to capture Gellert's attention, she's just, there, talking to him.

As if it were completely normal that she had appeared out of nothingness in one of the most heavily warded estates within Europe. What a life one has to have led, to have not so much as flinched upon appearing within hostile territory.

Though really, it doesn't seem as if Gellert is inclined to being unfriendly towards his latest houseguest at all.

"Regardless, I do believe it would be far more enjoyable an evening with you there, my dear Little Dove. You will grant me the pleasure of your presence, yes?"

The woman has something that Gellert wants, that much is obvious. It would appear that they are not in fact, dealing with a young woman a handful of years older than his own daughters.

No, if Beorhtric were to guess, he'd say the woman is closer to his own age, no younger than a decade at least. She has have to have some kind of age to her, if she has anything Gellert wanted. Given her appearance and apparent age then, she has to have strong magic. For the same reason Gellert already looks ten years younger than him, if not more, then Potter's magic is clearly strong enough to keep a tight hold upon her youthful visage.

"I guess I can come with you," she says slowly, reaching for a teacup and carefully spooning a helping of sugar beneath the liquid surface. For a moment all is quiet, the only sound the delicate clinking of the metal utensil against the edge of the china.

"You said our goals align right now," Potter speaks carefully, as if testing out the words on her tongue, the idea slowly swirling about in her mind, "does this make us allies?"

"Do you not wish to be allies, Harry?"

The woman shrugs, a restless, unsure thing before she takes a sip of her tea. The cup goes back on the saucer, and more sugar is added.

"I've never gotten to pick my side before, the path was always set out for me… But I can't forgive those muggles for what they did. I'd soon see them all dead than watch them poison the earth."

While she speaks with passion, it is a tired kind. The reluctant acceptance of a human acknowledging that they must fight to put out the fire, for if they sit and remain indifferent, then they will go up in flames until nothing remains. Though there is a personal vendetta against the muggles, it is nearly overwhelmed by the fact this woman does not want to spend her time fighting.

Yet, if Gellert is willing to call her an ally, then she has to be efficient in some manner. Certainly powerful, though if her magic leans more towards research or fighting upon the frontlines, Beorhtric remains unsure.

"Please inform Frau Heimalich that there will be another for robe fitting tomorrow," Gellert muses, accepting his usual coffee from the house elf that quickly vanished back to whence it came.

Potter looks up at him from beneath the thick lashes that frame her eyes, blinking once before returning her focus to the tea that warms her hands.

"Shall do. Will there be anything else, Gellert?"

The blond purses his lips, taking a controlled swig of his coffee and then setting aside the mug he's drained of all but the last few dregs.

"Find me a secretary. A competent one. Until that is done, you will split my paperwork between you."

If there were ever an incentive for him to find the correct person for the job, that was it. Beorhtric already had enough trouble completing all his duties and finding enough time to spend with his family, having to deal with Gellert's paperwork on top of that would drive him to an early grave.

"That I can promise I'll get done."

He did not want to be dealing with the excess paperwork, and he knew the other two wouldn't want that either.

Gellert smiles as if he knows exactly what he is thinking; how he made that thing full of teeth seem like a warm, approving gesture, Beorhtric would never know. Nor did he want to.

"Please inform Alfons and Osgar of their new workload."

At that sound of his own words, Gellert pauses for a moment, head tilting to a side and making a low noise in the back of his throat. It's not quite a hum, instead something deeper and throatier than that. Beorhtric has long given up trying to understand all that Gellert is.

"In fact, tell Osgar to focus all efforts on discerning the state of Magical Hungary. I've already got a reasonable lead on the next Hallow."

A lead on the Hallows?

His eyes trail over to Potter, and now it's abundantly clear why she's here, why Gellert is keeping her around. If she has information, any information at all on the Hallows, then of course Gellert would want to talk to her.

Given his title of Dark Lord, it is perhaps surprising that Gellert treats those not sworn to him quite well. The Dark, after all, is known for being far more ruthless than the Light.

But, the blond haired wizard seems quite content to leave Potter free to address him as she pleases. Though, if what Beorhtric has concluded about her power levels are true, then it is perhaps more likely that he is trying to woo her to their side. Given her distaste for muggles, it's not an unlikely outcome.

With one last look at the two, Beorhtric offers a parting bow before exiting the room.

 

 

It would probably be in his best interest to warn Alfons and Osgar of the newest face in the game.

 

 


End file.
